


Oxford

by green_violin_bow



Series: Out of Thought [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Butt Plugs, Greg's birthday weekend continues, I mean there are a lot of feels, M/M, Masturbation, Oxford, Picnics, Porn, Sexting, Suit Kink, These idiots in charge of emotions, but also a lot of porn, punting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-23
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-10-09 18:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10418043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/green_violin_bow/pseuds/green_violin_bow
Summary: It's Greg's fiftieth birthday, they're in Oxford, and naturally there is punting and picnicking. And porn.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know some of you don't like porn, so the chapters are split thusly:
> 
> Chapter 1: Unruly emotions and fluff  
> Chapter 2: Porn. Oh my god, so much porn

“Should I make you another coffee?”

Greg grins at him, and drains the last of the champagne from the flute. “I’m fine, thanks,” he smiles. “Stuffed.”

“Got your energy back?” Mycroft smirks.

“Mmm, a massive breakfast will do that.” Greg huffs a laugh. “I could probably still just fall asleep again though.”

“No, we have things to do,” says Mycroft, dropping a kiss on Greg’s shoulder. “The Natural History Museum, if you still fancy it.”

Greg flops back against the pillows and yawns lazily. “We could just stay in bed.”

“Lazy old man.”

“Oi –” the tickling is ruthless and Mycroft turns red as he hears himself making ridiculous noises.

“Stop it, I’ll have you deported –”

Greg holds him down and kisses him, hard. “As if you could,” he murmurs.

“I could.”

“As if you _would.”_ Another kiss.

“Well, yes. There is that, I suppose.”

They rub noses.

“It’s not fair,” says Greg, thoughtfully, moving to nestle his head on Mycroft’s chest.

“Mmm?” Mycroft turns to look down at him.

“You’re going to get all dressed up in your suit now, and I can’t even perv over you while you do it because I’m completely shagged out.”

Mycroft smiles and makes an amused noise in his throat. “‘Perv over’,” he murmurs, shaking his head.

Greg giggles. “Regretting your choice of bedfellow?” he grins. “Sorry, my vocabulary isn’t exactly up to the same standard as yours.”

“I don’t know,” says Mycroft in a superior tone. “‘Bedfellow’ is pretty good.”

Greg snorts with laughter. “I panicked. Didn’t know what other word to use.” There’s an edge of seriousness and vulnerability behind his words that gives Mycroft pause.

He takes a deep breath. “What we said last night…” he trails off, pauses, and tries again. “Before we went to sleep. I – I love you, I mean.” He shifts a little, tips Greg’s chin up so that they can look at one another properly. He hesitates again, looking fixedly at Greg’s lips. “I have so little experience in this,” he adds, shamefacedly. Greg’s eyelashes flutter. “But since – since we said that things are no longer casual between us – it is customary, is it not, to pick a word by which we can refer to the other person?” He hears himself, and cringes. _So pompous._

Greg blinks up at him. Then he shifts at Mycroft’s side, and Mycroft finds himself suddenly pinned in a kiss. “Myc,” he murmurs, and his eyes are soft and wide. He doesn’t seem to know what else to say, and Mycroft’s chest feels tight with unexpected emotion. Greg blinks a couple of times and finds his smile. “Are you asking me to be your boyfriend?” he grins.

Mycroft can’t help a relieved smile. “I suppose I am. Although perhaps…partner?”

“Either sounds good to me.”

They smile at one another, slightly madly.

Greg leans in and places kisses along Mycroft’s jaw. “I’m so in love with you,” he whispers into Mycroft’s skin, like a secret.

*

They examine every one of the dinosaur skeletons and see the Oxford dodo. Mycroft can’t stop watching Greg. He seems to _glow,_ shining with something that Mycroft doesn’t truly understand; perhaps it’s that strange sense of specialness one gets on one’s birthday. Either way, he’s so beautiful it’s all he can do not to touch him. Greg touches him at every opportunity, his hand on his arm to point out parts of the exhibition, in the small of his back to usher him through a door or up a staircase. Every touch seems to resonate in Mycroft’s bones.

Greg’s favourite thing turns out to be the beehive embedded behind glass in the wall of the museum, at the top of the south staircase. It is fascinating to watch the bees going about their business, and there are speakers which broadcast the hypnotic and strangely beautiful drone of the hive to those standing nearby. Mycroft remembers the sound of the bees on that unseasonably warm day in the garden of Sherlock and John’s cottage. He remembers Greg’s vulnerably soft bare feet on the gravel. His own unwillingness to trust, to open himself to Greg. He tangles his fingers unobtrusively with Greg’s, and finds them strongly clasped in return. He glances sideways under his eyelashes and discovers that Greg is smiling and blinking, looking surprised. _He didn’t think I wanted to hold hands with him in public,_ Mycroft realises suddenly. His heart swells and thumps with a rush of desperate, painful love. He settles their hands more firmly together.

Something hits Mycroft’s shoe and he jumps slightly, jerked out of his calm reverie watching the bees. Greg chuckles as a little girl throws herself up the last few stairs, chasing the cuddly stegosaurus she’d launched up ahead of her.

“Emma,” calls her mother, a few steps behind. “Watch what you’re doing!”

Emma, dark eyes wide, looks up at the rather intimidatingly tall figure of Mycroft Holmes in his light-grey three-piece summer suit. Then her face splits into a huge grin, and she grabs up her dinosaur from the ground. “Stegosaurus,” she informs him, seriously, holding it out.

Mycroft looks round for support from Greg, but he’s already smiling and chatting to the little girl’s mother, who seems to think that Mycroft has this all under control. He clears his throat nervously, and squats down to her level. “Er –” he says, awkwardly.

Luckily, Emma has the social niceties in hand. “I just got him, and he’s a dinosaur, and a stegosaurus,” she says. “He lived a very long time ago.”

“Yes,” says Mycroft. “The Late Jurassic Period.”

“Like the films,” says Emma.

“Er,” says Mycroft. He hasn’t seen the films. “Well. About 150 million years ago.” The girl is very small. He’s not sure if she’ll be able to count to 100 yet, let alone millions. But what else has he got to say?

“What’s that noise?” asks Emma, cuddling her dinosaur.

“It’s the bees,” rejoins Mycroft. “Have you seen them yet?”

“Bees sting you,” says Emma, eyes wide.

“Well –” Mycroft pauses. “They can sting you. But honeybees only have one sting. They die if they sting you, so it’s kinder not to get too near them, or to provoke them.”

“Are those honeybees?”

“Yes. But they are in a cage. They can’t sting you.”

“Can I see them?”

Mycroft realises she’s too short to see them easily. “Oh –” he pauses, and glances round at the girl’s mother, still talking with Greg. He doesn’t want to take charge of her daughter. It might be taken amiss. He straightens up, and clears his throat. “Your daughter –” he hesitates, “– has expressed an interest in seeing the bees.”

The woman turns her smiling face on him, and holds out her hand for her daughter. “Oh, I bet she has,” she laughs. “Believe it or not, we were trying to leave before she decided to run off up here. We’d even been through the gift shop already, although of course you know that, since she threw her dinosaur at you.” She looks down at her daughter fondly.

Emma judges this the right time to say “sorryyyyyyyy!” in the least repentant tone possible, and Greg can’t help but chuckle.

Mycroft smiles too. “Not at all.”

Greg winds their fingers together again. Mycroft can’t help a flicker of one eyebrow. He’d assumed that the woman had been flirting with Greg, since nearly everyone tries to. “Nice to meet you,” says Greg politely, to both Emma and her mother. “Hope you have a good day.”

They make their way down the stairs, and Greg squeezes Mycroft’s hand.

Outside in the soft sunshine, Mycroft looks sidelong at Greg. He seems a little more solemn than he has for the past couple of hours. “She didn’t mind me talking to her daughter?” he asks, more as something to break the silence than anything.

“Nah, ’course not,” says Greg, easily. “She was just apologising for her disturbing us.” Nevertheless, there’s something pensive in his expression, his tone, that worries Mycroft.

They pass a bunch of overexcited kids and head towards the street. “Where next?” asks Greg.

“Well, it is up to you,” says Mycroft cautiously. “But I did ask the hotel to prepare us a picnic hamper, just in case you fancy it.”

“Wow,” smiles Greg. “Where are we picknicking?”

“That’s a surprise for now,” says Mycroft, softly. “Somewhere quiet.”

*

“You should not be carrying your own birthday hamper.”

“You look far too elegant to carry it.”

“Nonsense, it would go perfectly with my summer suit.”

“You just want it for sartorial reasons, don’t you?” twinkles Greg. He skips away as Mycroft tries again to take the hamper. “It’s my birthday, I’ll carry my hamper if I want to!”

“Don’t shake it like that,” grumbles Mycroft, half-laughing. “There’s champagne in it.”

Greg holds it still, and gives a little snort of amused contrition. “God, sorry, I should’ve known you’d never do a picnic by halves.”

“Indeed,” smiles Mycroft. He stops, and beckons Greg to the small wooden door in the wall. “We’re going in here.”

The porter greets him by name, and they walk sedately around the quad and through the gardens. “We have special permission to pass through the Master’s garden, just this once,” says Mycroft, in hushed tones. “I haven’t been in there before.”

“Wait, the Master of the College gets a whole garden to himself?” asks Greg, quietly but incredulously. “No wonder people go on about Oxford being posh.”

The garden is beautiful, with apple trees dotted around a perfectly-maintained lawn, and borders of lavender bushes buzzing with the activity of hundreds of bees. At the bottom of the garden, the river babbles gently by. There’s a small jetty, to which is tied a punt.

Greg eyes it dubiously. “I’ve seen these on _Lewis,”_ he says. “I hope you’re going to be the one doing the stick work.”

Mycroft smiles at him. “Certainly. Especially on your birthday. You just have to unpack the picnic.” He holds out his hand and helps Greg get settled in the punt, then passes him the picnic basket. He unties the punt and hops into the end of the boat, getting the pole settled in his hands. It is years since he last did this.

“Won’t you get a bit hot wearing your jacket?” asks Greg, innocently.

Mycroft sends him a knowing look. “We’re not going far.”

Greg grins at him. “I’ll start getting the picnic ready then.”

This section of the river, far from the public punting areas, and on college land, is beautifully quiet. Mycroft finds his rhythm and even discovers that he still knows how to steer and propel them forward at the same time.

“I thought there’d be loads of people out on a day like this,” says Greg, opening the hamper lid.

“There will be, in the public punting areas,” returns Mycroft. “I thought we’d avoid all that. Sharing a river with the tourists learning to punt is hardly a relaxing experience.”

Greg looks up at him, shading his eyes with his hand. “You planned all this while you were away?” he asks, voice careful.

Mycroft concentrates on the river, on letting the pole slip smoothly through his palms. “It was a pleasure to think of something other than work, sometimes,” he says, calmly.

For a few moments, the only sounds are the river and the birds. “This picnic looks amazing,” says Greg.

Mycroft sees the spot he’s been aiming for, a shady weeping willow that hangs low over the river. He manoeuvres them beneath its dappled canopy and ties the punt to a sturdy protruding tree root. He tests the riverbed, but it feels too muddy to safely leave the pole standing in it, so he lifts it into its housings at the side of the boat. He looks down at Greg, who is relaxing against one of the cushions and smiling softly up at him.

“I don’t need to tell you how gorgeous you look while punting, do I?” asks Greg. Mycroft feels his cheeks redden a little as he folds himself onto the floor of the boat and arranges a cushion behind his back. “Oh, I do,” murmurs Greg. “You look beautiful. All tall and cool and in command.” He smiles. “Boyfriend.”

Mycroft flicks his eyes up to Greg’s and takes a breath. “Thank you,” he says, trying not to reject the compliment.

Greg folds the hamper out completely flat, and opens all the small boxes of different finger-food, handing Mycroft a real china plate. They share out the delicate cucumber sandwiches, and Mycroft pours out two flutes from a half-bottle of champagne. They touch glasses and Greg smiles. “I do believe you’re trying to get me drunk. Champagne with every meal.”

“It’s your birthday.”

“Do I get to make a huge fuss of you on _your_ birthday?”

“If you can find out when it is.”

Greg snorts a laugh. “Twenty-third of December.”

Mycroft looks at him exasperatedly. “Sherlock.”

“Yep.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes. “The Christmas dinners,” he sighs.

“Well, I get to make a huge combined Christmas and birthday fuss then,” smiles Greg.

They eat quietly, listening to the rustling of the willow’s leaves all around them, the soft rush of the river. Mycroft glances frequently at Greg from beneath his eyelashes. At last, when he’s finished a plate of food, he packs things back into the hamper so that he can move it and shift to lie next to Greg. He puts a hand on Greg’s chest, fingers describing soft circles on the fabric of his shirt. “There’s something wrong,” he says, gently.

Greg sighs, and lets his eyes fall closed for a moment. “I could use a hug,” he murmurs. Mycroft shifts to wrap both arms around him. “I’m sorry,” apologises Greg, lips buried in Mycroft’s hair.

Mycroft shakes his head, cheek pressed against Greg’s neck. “No,” he says gently. “I just want to know so I can help. You miss your – Fee? Yes? Apologies, I am not sure if – stepdaughter, or –”

Greg sighs. “Deducing me, eh?” Mycroft can hear the sad smile in his voice. “I mean – yeah, I do, and seeing her on Wednesday reminded me I don’t see her enough, but I was only with her mum for a while. She’s a really sweet kid, but she doesn’t feel like mine, exactly.” He shifts back a little, and Mycroft looks up at him, watchful. Greg bites his lip. “Did you hear what the woman in the museum was saying to me, while you were chatting to Emma?”

Mycroft shakes his head, slowly. “No.”

“She said – she came running up the stairs after Emma, and she was trying to get her home to start getting lunch ready, and she was exasperated with her and trying to explain about her throwing dinosaurs at us –” he smiles at the memory, although it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “And she said, ‘do you and your husband have any?’.” Greg bites his bottom lip again, lets his head fall to Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft’s heart does a painful turn in his chest. He remembers Greg’s gentle way with the Cole baby, the sadness in his eyes. He doesn’t know what he can possibly say to assuage this hurt.

“I am so sorry,” he murmurs. “I did not – I had not realised that you –” he clears his throat, unable to continue.

“Nah, I…” Greg trails off, winding his fingers into Mycroft’s. “It just hit me, you know? It just feels like…if I’d met you sooner, if I’d met you instead of my wife…” he sighs. “I know it’s nonsense, you probably wouldn’t’ve wanted kids anyway, but…” he goes quiet again. “Feels like wasted time.” He shrugs with one shoulder. “It’s stupid. I’m just being a maudlin old idiot.”

Mycroft feels dazed. He licks his lips, trying to find the right words. “I do not know what might have been –” he pauses. “But I cannot adequately express how grateful I am that we have been allowed this, at least.”

Greg nods, his cheek against Mycroft’s shoulder. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me in a long, long time,” he murmurs.

“Greg…” Mycroft doesn’t know what to say. “I didn’t happen to you. You made me understand that I could – that I could have a form of happiness I never expected to experience in my whole life. You are extraordinary.” His voice shakes a little on the last word, emotion forming a lump in his throat.

It’s then that he realises he can feel Greg shaking a little, and understands that he is crying, silently.

Mycroft makes an _oh_ noise in his throat, and turns to pull Greg more closely against him. “I am so sorry.” It’s all he can find to say.

“No – Myc – God – oh, for fuck’s sake,” mutters Greg, wiping his face with his hands. Mycroft immediately hands him his lavender pocket-square handkerchief, and Greg gives a little sobbing laugh. “Now I’m ruining your outfit, too,” he mumbles, burying his face in the cotton hanky.

Mycroft gives a lopsided smile, and caresses the back of Greg’s neck with his long fingers.

“I’m sorry,” mutters Greg, looking up at him from behind the handkerchief. “This is fucking ridiculous. You’ve given me such a lovely birthday, and all I can do is be all – all soppy and weird. And cry.” His tone is joking, but the downturned corners of his mouth tell their own tale.

“I wish I knew how to help.”

Greg grimaces. “It’s all so stupid. I’m not even sure if _I_ know what I’m going on about. I think – I know it’s stupid, but you being away… I know we were – doing stuff yesterday when I said it, but it was true – it physically hurt, you being away for so long. Sometimes I couldn’t sleep, my stomach hurt so much without you. And I was worried for you, and I just wanted you to come back – and I was afraid that all that time away would have...would’ve changed things somehow, us, you – I dunno…” he trails off into silence, twisting the handkerchief between his hands.

Mycroft blinks a couple of times and clears his throat. “Greg...I must admit that, while I was away, I too feared that – that our lack of proximity would change our relations.” He can feel his cheeks heat a little. “And it would also be honest of me to tell you that – when you mentioned the evening with your ex and her daughter – I did wonder whether perhaps that life, with a family, might appeal...so close to your birthday…” His fingers are wound unintentionally a little too tightly in the fabric of Greg’s shirt.

“Oh, Myc,” sighs Greg.

The pressure of words is too much, and Mycroft cannot stop himself. “Is this – enough? For you?”

Greg half-laughs in disbelief. “Shit – Mycroft – God, I really am an idiot. You – saying those things – being able to tell you how I really feel, knowing that you love me back – Christ, I feel like I’m in some sort of...fucking...dream. I’m not sure it’s real, to be honest. Me being sad I never had kids – yeah, okay, whatever. But being with you – I don’t have the words.” The look in his eyes makes Mycroft redden again. “I think I’m just – relieved that you’re back, that we get to have this...and a bit sad, because it’s my birthday, and I feel old, and because I wish I’d had this with you for years, instead of just now.”

Mycroft looks at him, eyes wide, then nods, slowly.

“I’m sorry it’s so...stupid, and complicated,” mutters Greg.

Mycroft shakes his head, mutely.

“I could go for another four cuddles now, please,” mumbles Greg, into Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft smiles a little as he shifts closer in the bottom of the punt, rearranging cushions around them and holding Greg tighter. “Four?”

“Yep.”

“How will we measure them out?”

“I’ll tell you when they’re done.”

“I can provide kisses too, if needed.”

“Yes, needed.”

“How many?”

“I’ll let you know once I know.”

“Sounds imprecise.”

“Kiss me.”

It is slow and loving, Mycroft’s hands passing deliberate, comforting strokes across Greg’s back.

“You are not old, you know, Greg.”

“I _feel_ very old.”

“Well, perhaps, but you have a stressful job, have had several weeks of poor sleep, it seems, for which I am sorry, and an emotionally trying twenty-four hours –”

“Not emotionally _trying,_ I love that we talked –”

“I am simply saying that you have good reason for feeling like this.”

Greg nods a little, against Mycroft’s chest.

“Also, being fifty,” adds Mycroft seriously, “you may be overtired after this morning’s sexual activities. I understand it can be a problem for the aged.”

Greg chokes slightly and looks up at him, brown eyes beginning to sparkle again. “You are _such_ a shit, Mycroft Holmes,” he grins. “Also, you’re only four years younger than me.”

“I _can_ also run further than you, which speaks to my superior stamina in various fields,” adds Mycroft pompously, deep-grey eyes sharp and mischievous.

Greg stares at him disbelievingly. “Bloody hell, the hubris of the man,” he says, shaking his head.

Mycroft smirks at him. “Where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation.”

“Oh alright, Mr Darcy,” teases Greg. He laughs at the flicker of Mycroft’s right eyebrow. “What? I read. Anyway, the whole point of that book is that Darcy’s a pompous knob until he meets Elizabeth.”

Mycroft smiles, and leans in to kiss him. “I know,” he says. Then, “I missed your laugh,” he murmurs, to the corner of Greg’s mouth.

“I know, I’m sorry gorgeous,” whispers Greg.

“Do not apologise. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Greg pushes a kiss under Mycroft’s jawline. “You’re wrong about the stamina thing though.”

Mycroft smiles wickedly. “Oh really?”

Greg grins. “Really. Up for a game?”

Mycroft looks at him cautiously through his eyelashes. “And what might this game involve?”

Greg gives a short laugh. “Not so cocky now, are we, eh?”

Mycroft throws him a disdainful look. “Well?”

“It’s just a bet. Who can last the longest tonight.”

“Tonight. I will be…”

“At your dinner. Yeah. And I’ll be in the hotel room. Alone. Having a lovely relaxing bath. Hours to kill. Just me, lots of hot, bubbly water. My hands…my phone.” He trails one finger down Mycroft’s side, and over his hip. “Doesn’t sound very threatening, does it?”

Mycroft clears his throat. “I can simply not check my phone.”

Greg grins, eyes sparkling. “Can you? Knowing that there might be...pictures?”

Mycroft glares at him. “You know perfectly well I have excellent self-control.”

“Oh, so do I. It’ll be quite a show, I’m sure.” Greg sits up, and pours them each another glass of champagne. He touches his glass to Mycroft’s and maintains eye contact as he takes a sip, then licks his bottom lip luxuriously.

Mycroft can feel his cheeks turning pink, and he looks away hurriedly, examining the tree roots on the bank in great detail. He takes a gulp of champagne. “I was planning to take care of you,” he murmurs. He flicks his eyes back to Greg’s. “It was what you wanted.”

Greg grins at him, eyes soft behind his teasing manner. “Oh gorgeous, I still want you to fuck me,” he murmurs, winding their fingers together. “In fact, I’d love it if you took me right now, hard and fast in the bottom of this boat, where anyone could see us –”

Mycroft really _is_ red now, he can feel it. His cock hardens steadily in his trousers. But he knows a politician when he’s being manipulated by one. He gives Greg a steely stare. “Dirty move,” he says.

Greg throws his head back and laughs. “Oh, definitely.” He raises Mycroft’s hand to his lips, kisses every one of his knuckles. “I’m going to enjoy this,” he whispers, holding Mycroft’s gaze through his long, dark lashes. He comes to lie back down next to Mycroft, the dappled light from their protective canopy of willow fronds shifting restlessly over his face. “You should take your jacket off,” he suggests again, lazily. “You must be far too warm.”

Mycroft can’t help smiling at him as he sits up and Greg helps him remove the jacket. “Only because it’s your birthday,” he murmurs. “I do not like appearing in public in only my waistcoat and shirtsleeves.”

Greg smiles and pulls him down to rest his head against the cushion next to him. “Positively indecent,” he murmurs. Mycroft smiles. “Basically porn,” adds Greg.

“Oh hush,” mutters Mycroft, feeling a bit silly.

“Roll your shirtsleeves up for me,” giggles Greg, rolling over onto his side so he can watch Mycroft’s expression. He sees his doubting look and presses a kiss to his ear. “I’m not taking the piss. Seeing you mess around with your clothes – getting you even just a bit rumpled – god, you know what it does to me.”

Mycroft turns to look at him, raising an eyebrow, but he can’t deny the truth of it. He smirks. “I do.”

“Go on then. Roll them up for me.”

“No – it will – it will crumple the line of the sleeves –”

“Mmm, that’s the point.” Greg manages to imbue his tone with so much filthy intent that Mycroft finds himself blushing again. “God, you’re adorable,” groans Greg, leaning in for a kiss, which becomes heated far too quickly. “It’s my birthday, and for my present I want you to expose your arms wantonly in a public place for my viewing pleasure.” He giggles as Mycroft rolls his eyes.

“I already got you tickets to _Matilda,”_ grumbles Mycroft.

“Mmm, and I love them, and now I want your sexy arms, too,” grins Greg.

“Insatiable.”

“Only for you.”

Mycroft clears his throat and starts to undo his cufflinks. Greg holds out his hand for them, and puts them safely in his wallet.

Mycroft starts to feel very self-conscious indeed, his long fingers less deft than usual as he begins rolling his left sleeve in precise folds, trying to keep the material as flat as possible. Greg kisses his neck and makes an _mmm_ noise that should be illegal. Nevertheless, Mycroft can still recognise a political move when he sees one. “So,” he counters. “This kink of yours for watching me put on my suits –”

Greg chuckles softly in his ear. “Yep? What do you want to know?”

“How does that work then?”

“Very simple really, gorgeous. I truly love how well-dressed you are. I want you, surrounded by mirrors, paying focused attention to every detail of your beautiful appearance, while I watch you. I want to touch myself. I want you to watch me in the mirror, knowing exactly what you do to me. I want you hard and needing in your beautifully-cut trousers. I want you to know how close I am, just watching you.”

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably, starting to work on his right sleeve. He tries to maintain his cool, detached mien, but it isn’t working too well given that he’s so hard he can barely concentrate.

“And I know you’ll enjoy it,” murmurs Greg. “Because – even though you are wilfully blind to how fucking delicious you are – I also know that _you_ have a kink for watching me touch myself.”

Mycroft blushes and raises an eyebrow. “Oh yes?”

“Oh yes.”

“And how did you deduce that?”

“Our first date – when you went down on me, and I wanted to watch you make yourself come – you were surprised that that was what I wanted. It turned you on. And when I put the condom on, you always watch, and the look on your face – God, Myc.” He turns over, and pulls Mycroft in for a biting, intense kiss.

“You are certainly very observant,” says Mycroft, superciliously.

“Mmmmm,” hums Greg, in his ear.

Mycroft holds up his arms for inspection. Greg sits up and takes both Mycroft’s hands in his. “Perfect,” he smiles, kissing first the left palm, then the right. “Lovely indecently naked arms.” He lies along Mycroft’s side, half on top of him. His leg comes to rest against Mycroft’s erection, and he raises a cheeky eyebrow.

“Don’t pretend that was an accident,” grumbles Mycroft.

“Oh, I’m not,” grins Greg.

“Torturer.”

“But not a tease,” smiles Greg. “No-one here is pretending you’re not going to end the day fucking me so hard I can’t sit down tomorrow.” He feels the throb of Mycroft’s cock through his trousers and laughs, smugly.

“Dear God,” mutters Mycroft under his breath. “I have to take us back soon so I can get ready. Are you planning to allow me to calm down so there’s not an extra pole involved in the process?”

“I don’t know. Are you planning to handle the pole in the same disgustingly suggestive way you did earlier? Because I can’t answer for my actions.”

Mycroft stifles a laugh and glares at his boyfriend. Greg giggles and leans in to kiss him softly.


	2. Chapter 2

“So…” says Greg, hands on Mycroft’s hips. “What do you have to wear for this ’do?”

Mycroft smirks at him in the mirror. “I thought my dark navy wool and silk dinner jacket, matching waistcoat and trousers, with burgundy pocket square and tie.”

Greg groans and presses close, slipping his fingers between the buttons of Mycroft’s waistcoat. “You know I love it when you talk dirty to me.”

Mycroft’s breath catches in his throat, but he rolls his eyes and tries to suppress his smile. “Honestly, I don’t know how I ended up with a deviant like you.”

Greg giggles. “How long’ve you got before you have to leave?”

Mycroft glances to the clock on the bedside table. “Around half an hour.” He straightens up, with purpose. “I will be expected to attend the drinks reception before dinner, of course.”

“Of course,” murmurs Greg with a smile, kissing the silky back of his waistcoat, between his shoulderblades.

Mycroft turns around and runs his hands through Greg’s hair, suddenly serious. “I am sorry you cannot come with me. I do not like leaving you alone on your birthday.”

“Yeah, and I don’t like sending you off dressed better than James Bond to a meeting of probably eligible and flamingly gay spies,” grins Greg. “Can’t be helped though.”

Mycroft snorts as Greg retreats to the bed, shrugging off his jacket to reveal his still-scandalously rolled up shirtsleeves.

Greg, leaning back against the pillows and channel-hopping, growls in a deep voice, “oh, baby, going commando just for me –” He starts giggling. Eventually he settles on yelling at an episode of  _ Come Dine With Me  _ where everyone appears to be even more of an idiot than they usually are. 

Mycroft divests himself of his waistcoat and starts undoing his shirt buttons.

“You’re doing that on purpose, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“Teasing me.”

Mycroft sends him a mock-indignant look in the mirror. “I am simply getting changed for my evening engagement.”

“Well I can’t concentrate.”

“Find something more intellectually stimulating to occupy your attention.”

“I’m already quite stimulated enough, thank you.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow and drops his shirt to the floor, then slowly undoes his belt, buttons and flies. “Good to know,” he says, precisely. “No additional help from me required.”

Greg blinks at him for a few seconds, wearing a lopsided grin. Then he obviously makes the decision to up the ante. “None whatsoever,” he murmurs. “Doing very well on my own.” In a movement calculated both to draw attention and to tease, he runs his hand slowly down over his chest, to palm the very obvious bulge in his jeans. His eyes narrow, and he gasps, biting his bottom lip.

Mycroft shakes his head at the absolutely shameless tactics Greg is prepared to employ. Nevertheless, his cock springs free when he pushes his trousers and pants to the floor, then bends to pick everything up and drape it all over a chair. At the wardrobe he pulls out his suit for the evening, and lays it lovingly on the bed, ignoring the fact that Greg’s bare foot is right next to it. He also tries to ignore the way that Greg is writhing with pleasure as he pushes the heel of his hand against the throbbing length of his cock, through the denim of his jeans. He can’t, unfortunately, ignore the very obvious moans and gasps that Greg is giving, intended to distract.

Mycroft throws him a look of disdain, which doesn’t work very well because all he wants to do is rip Greg’s jeans open and take him in his mouth. He schools his expression as well as he can, and pulls on a new pair of boxer briefs, which immediately tent with his arousal. Undignified. He steps into the slim-cut suit trousers, wincing a little as he arranges himself so that he can do up his buttons and flies. There should be no need for a belt with these trousers.

“Gorgeous,” growls Greg, watching him in the mirror. Mycroft can’t help looking when he hears the sound of jeans being unzipped.

“Dear God,” he mutters. Greg is a picture; flushed, hair messy, biting his bottom lip, he’s watching Mycroft with eager, greedy attention. His strong fingers are teasing his cock through his boxers, now.

Mycroft checks the time. Fifteen minutes until he has to leave. He picks up his crisp white shirt and concentrates on doing it up, button by button, although his fingers are less skillful than usual. Eventually he can tuck the shirt in, resisting the urge to stroke his achingly hard length as he does so.

“I need my cufflinks back,” he says, taking refuge in a stern tone as he makes eye contact with Greg in the mirror.

Greg grins as he squeezes his cock through his cotton boxers. “Alright. Come over here then.” Mycroft sighs and steps over to the bed. Greg takes his hands off himself grudgingly, and removes the cufflinks from his wallet, holds them out – and pulls them back when Mycroft reaches for them. “One condition,” he says, brown eyes dark and mischievous.

“Yes?” says Mycroft haughtily, trying to ignore how desperately hard he is, how much he just wants to ignore the fucking dinner and stay here, take Greg in his mouth, fuck him until he screams –

Greg holds out his right hand. “Make this nice and wet for me. I’m going to need it. I haven’t even seen you put your tie on yet.”

Mycroft blushes furiously. He’s going to – he’s  _ actually  _ going to – he glances at the clock again, then narrows his eyes at Greg. “If you think these tactics are going to help you win –”

Greg wiggles his fingers at him. “Suck me, beautiful,” he murmurs, eyes half-lidded. “I know you want to.”

Mycroft leans forward, closing his hand over Greg’s left, in which are held the cufflinks. 

Greg brings the fingers of his right hand to Mycroft’s lips, teasing them along the sensitive skin. “Open up.”

Mycroft’s cock throbs as he takes Greg’s index finger into his mouth. He quickly adds a second, then laves his tongue across his palm. He licks and sucks each finger in turn, never taking his eyes from Greg’s. 

By the time he’s finished, Greg is breathing hard, but he says lightly, “thanks. Here you are.” The cufflinks drop into Mycroft’s hand.

He returns to the mirror. His own reflection is flushed and bothered-looking, but his attention is pinned by the sight of Greg pulling down his boxers, using his left hand to cup and caress his balls, as he starts to stroke his length leisurely with his right. “Unbelievable,” frowns Mycroft, trying to keep the breathlessness out of his voice.

“Mmmm,” moans Greg. “Let’s see you put that tie on, gorgeous.”

Mycroft has to try tying it twice, his fingers are shaking so much. He simply tries not to watch Greg as he does up his waistcoat.

“I think the sight of you in a waistcoat actually does count as porn,” muses Greg, breathing hard.

There are just a few minutes before he has to leave. He pushes in his cufflinks, and slips on his jacket, then turns to look at Greg. His cock pushes painfully against the zip of his trousers. “You are disgraceful.”

“You’re obscene,” grins Greg, squirming as he strokes himself slowly. “Come here.”

Mycroft crosses to the bed and leans over to bite Greg’s bottom lip. He narrows his eyes at him. “So how does this fantasy of yours end, may I ask?”

“Well, gorgeous,” smiles Greg. “There are a few options.”

“I think I can guess one of them.”

“Oh yeah?”

Mycroft sits down next to Greg on the bed, and slips his hand over Greg’s. They stroke him together. “As soon as I’m suited up,” he murmurs, looking Greg right in the heavy-lidded eyes, “you walk over to me, and you tell me to kneel down.”

Greg moans, pushing up into Mycroft’s hand.

“You want me to think that I’m going to be allowed to suck you off,” purrs Mycroft, “don’t you? So you feed me your cock, jerking yourself into my mouth, letting me suck the head.” He swirls his thumb around the head of Greg’s cock, making him gasp. “And then, at the last moment, just as you start to come –” Mycroft leans down and kisses Greg softly, running his tongue along his upper lip, “you pull out. And you make such a mess, don’t you? All over my suit, my waistcoat, my jacket. You love it, you can’t stop coming.” He smiles ruthlessly as he feels Greg’s hand stop moving beneath his own.

“Holy shit, Myc,” grins Greg. “You dirty bastard.”

“You are not the only one who can play gutter tactics.”

“The mouth on you.”

“Mmm,  _ quite,”  _ says Mycroft, enunciating clearly. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Oh I will. Check your phone.”

“This isn’t going to work.”

“You don’t know what I’ve got in store for you yet.”

*

Mycroft has to borrow an umbrella from the hotel for his short walk to the College, as he was so flustered that he’d left the room without it. An inferior model, of which his umbrella maker certainly would not approve, but serviceable enough as a walking stick. Luckily by the time he arrives his erection has gone, although the arousal hasn’t dissipated at all and he feels jumpy, on edge with the need to come. He breathes deeply in a dark corner of the quad, before he steps inside to join the drinks reception.

For some time he is kept busy circulating and introducing the right people to one another, a word in the right ear about a particular bit of news, a veiled warning to someone else about another. By the time the interminable Grace before College dinner is being said, he feels focused and calm.

That ends when he feels his personal mobile vibrate in his jacket pocket.

He checks the messages covertly under the table. The first two are sweet. If it weren’t for the company he was in, he might have allowed himself a smile.

[19:42] I love you. G

[19:42] Thank you for playing with me. G

 

The third is a picture message. He takes a small breath before clicking on it.

It’s just Greg’s face, smiling gorgeously with a glass of champagne in a luxurious-looking bubble bath. Mycroft can’t help a small twitch of a smile.

 

**[19:44] Beautiful. MH**

 

Rather relieved, he makes to put his phone away, but it buzzes again before he can. This time the champagne glass is nowhere to be seen. The bubbles really are plentiful, and the only thing he can see is Greg’s face, but his expression is...recognisable. Mycroft catches his breath and locks his phone, glancing to either side rather furtively.

 

**[19:45] Still beautiful. If shameless. MH**

[19:46] Oh, entirely. Are you hard for me again yet? G

 

Mycroft shifts uncomfortably in his seat. The answer is ‘yes’, but Greg doesn’t need to know that.

 

**[19:48] You’ll have to do better than that. MH**

[19:48] I will gorgeous. G

**[19:49] You could just amuse yourself for a couple of hours. I’m busy. MH**

[19:49] You could just come back here and keep me amused. G

 

Mycroft jumps as the politician on his right engages him in conversation about the latest debacle in the European parliament. He can’t concentrate, feeling his phone vibrate in his pocket.

 

[19:49] Thing is though, I am amusing myself. G

[19:50] Nothing’s as fun as getting you so hard you can’t think straight. G

[19:50] Yeah, yeah, I can hear you now – you never think straight. G

[19:51] I don’t think this hotel bubble bath is very good you know. G

[19:52] All the bubbles are disappearing already. G

[19:52] It’s terribly...revealing. G

 

The next picture makes Mycroft clear his throat slightly. He can’t see Greg’s face this time, but his chest and right arm are visible just below the surface of the water, his flat belly and the trail of hair running down it, a vein standing out in his arm, his hand obviously curled tight around – and there the picture stops.

 

**[19:54] You are torturing me. MH**

[19:55] Well, yes, but it’s my birthday and I’m enjoying myself. G

**[19:58] I can’t eat with you doing this. MH**

[20:01] You’ll need your strength, gorgeous. G

 

Mycroft’s soup course is whisked away untouched. He takes a few bites of the meltingly delicious lemon sole that’s placed in front of him next, but then his phone buzzes again.

 

This picture is much, much more explicit: Greg’s strong fingers wrapped around his red, swollen cock. Mycroft’s own cock throbs in his trousers, painful against the seam. He shifts a little in his seat.

 

**[20:14] Are you sure that bath’s not too hot? MH**

[20:15] Cheeky bastard. G

 

Before the main course, one of the members gives a speech, which Mycroft doesn’t hear a word of. His phone vibrates in his pocket throughout. He cannot check it. He also can’t ignore it.

 

[20:18] Perhaps you were right though. I’m going to get out of the bath now. Got things to do. G

[20:19] Can’t stop thinking about how gorgeous you looked earlier, trying to do up those tight trousers with a massive hard-on. G

[20:19] I love watching you. And I know you love watching me. G

[20:20] If I thought you’d be able to watch it, I’d send you a video of what I’m doing right now. G

[20:21] Instead I’ll paint the scene: I’m getting myself ready for you. I’ve got the lube out and I’m going to open myself nice and wide for you. All ready for when you come home. G

[20:25] Ignoring me? G

[20:27] Never have been able to reach my own prostate. Fingers are too short. Crying shame. I bet you can reach yours though, with those beautiful, elegant, suckable fingers. G

[20:28] Now *that* I’d love to watch sometime. Have you ever tried it? G

[20:29] Of course, I don’t want this whole experience to be devoid of pleasure, so I thought I’d bring along a friend. G

 

Mycroft’s stomach flips as he opens the last message. The picture shows Greg’s beautiful, innocent brown eyes wide over the top of a terrifyingly large purple silicone butt plug.

The fingers of Greg’s left hand are slick with lube.

The length of the toy is slick, too.

Mycroft closes his eyes for a moment, and takes a deep breath.

 

**[20:33] This is unfair. MH**

[20:35] What’s unfair is leaving your boyfriend alone on his birthday. No wonder I resort to desperate measures. G

**[20:35] The answer to your question, by the way, is yes. And yes I can. MH**

[20:36] Thought so. So will you let me watch? G

**[20:37] Only if I get through this dinner without disgracing myself. MH**

[20:39] Sorry, can’t help you there. I can’t think of anything hotter than making you come in your pants in a room full of spies and politicians. G

**[20:40] Dear God. MH**

[20:41] Don’t think God will be much help either. Just so you know, two fingers feels great, but I wish they were yours. G

 

Mycroft locks his phone and takes another deep breath. He considers excusing himself and finishing himself off in the gents’, but his stubborn pride forbids him. How much longer? Surely dessert must be – he almost groans aloud as another speaker gets up.

 

[20:43] How’s dinner? G

**[20:44] Haven’t eaten a thing. MH**

[20:45] I’ll feed you when you get back. G

**[20:46] Detective Inspector Lestrade, you have a mind so far below the gutter I am not quite sure where it resides. The sewer? The Earth’s core? MH**

[20:48] Well *I’m* feeling pleasantly full, anyway. G

 

Thank God,  _ thank God,  _ dessert is being served. Mycroft doesn’t even look at what it is; he takes a couple of mouthfuls and murmurs to the politician on his right that he has been informed he must join a telephone call. He mutters something vague about rejoining them in a few moments, and locks himself in the gents’. He splashes his face with cold water, then opens his texts again.

 

**[20:53] I’m hiding in the gents’ because I cannot concentrate. MH**

[20:54] Have I won? G

**[20:55] No, Greg, I do not intend to masturbate in a public bathroom simply because you are winding me up past the point of endurance. MH**

 

He should have expected it, but the picture he receives is unbearably beautiful: Greg lying back on the bed, flushed and biting his bottom lip, legs open wantonly with his right hand wrapped around his cock, his left holding the phone. Mycroft can’t see the butt plug, but the knowledge that it’s there – filling his boyfriend up, teasing him with every tiny movement he might make – makes him catch his breath. Before he’s even thought about it, he’s running his fingers along the rigid, throbbing line of his prick in his trousers. He bites the back of his left hand, stifling a moan. It takes a huge effort of will to force his hand away from himself.

 

**[20:58] Christ...Greg… MH**

[21:00] I wish I could go down on my knees for you right now, gorgeous. G

**[21:01] I don’t know what to type. I think you have rendered me incoherent. MH**

[21:03] When can you come home? I’m desperate for you. The plug feels good but it’s nothing to how I know you’re going to make me feel. G

 

Mycroft makes a decision. He has technically achieved the most vital parts of his diplomacy for the evening. The rest can be completed via email. He’s certainly not going to be effective in this state.

 

**[21:04] I’m coming home now. MH**

[21:05] You have no idea how pleased I am. But you will soon. G

**[21:06] I think you’re going to win. MH**

[21:07] I don’t know. I’ve been on the edge thinking about you for a good hour now. I never usually come from penetration alone, but… G

 

Mycroft grabs the hotel’s umbrella from the stand and speeds past the porter with a hurried “goodnight.”

 

**[21:09] Do you want to give me a heart attack? MH**

[21:10] Waiting for you, gorgeous. G

 

The hotel corridors seem to go on forever, but as he scans the keycard and enters their bedroom, Mycroft can feel his heart pounding. Greg watches him from the bed, propping himself up on his elbows. He looks like a wet dream. Mycroft bites his bottom lip and throws his jacket onto a chair.

“Come here,” groans Greg. “Just fucking...come here. God. Christ, Mycroft.”

“My suit –”

“Leave it on. Come here.”

Mycroft’s hands are shaking too much to deal with buttons anyway. Greg kneels up on the bed, cock jutting out obscenely in front of him. Mycroft uses his height to tower over him, gathering him up by the waist, burying his right hand in his hair and pulling, hard. Greg moans.

Mycroft slides his left hand slowly down over the curve of Greg’s buttock, until he finds the base of the plug. He taps it with his fingertips, then presses it in a little harder. Greg gasps, and Mycroft bites his bottom lip. “This is coming out now,” he murmurs. “I need to fuck you.”

Greg grins up at him. “You get the condom and the lube.” His eyes are dark.

Mycroft gasps with relief as he undoes his buttons and fly, then pushes his trousers and boxer briefs down to mid-thigh. He rolls on the condom and slicks his cock with lube, trying not to enjoy the sensation too much, worried he’ll come before he’s even fully inside Greg.

Greg locks their eyes and groans as he removes the toy, throwing it away across the bed. “I need you.” He kneels up again and guides Mycroft’s hand to his straining cock. “Myc – don’t be worried about hurting me – I need you to fuck me.  _ Really  _ fuck me. Hard.” His dark brown eyes are trusting.

Mycroft smiles, and moves both hands to Greg’s face. He bends to kiss him gently, then bites at his lips, pushing for entry with his tongue before pulling back. “Turn around.”

Greg turns and puts his elbows and head down, his arse in the air at the edge of the bed. His hole is open and waiting. Mycroft’s cock throbs and he guides himself forward, lines himself up. Greg moans. “Please, Myc.”

Mycroft takes hold of Greg’s hips and pushes forward in one long stroke. He can’t help the desperate groan that escapes him as beautiful, tight heat envelops him, but it’s drowned out by Greg, swearing and moaning. “Oh fuck. Oh fuck, Mycroft. Oh God. You’re going to win – fuck, you feel so good –”

Mycroft bites his bottom lip so hard he may be drawing blood. “Are you – is the angle okay –”

“Myc – oh my God – I swear, please move, please – it’s perfect, I need –”

Mycroft begins to move, cautiously at first, drawing out before pushing back in. Each stroke is an exquisite torture.

“Harder,” moans Greg. “Myc – faster – harder – please, please –”

Mycroft’s fingernails are digging hard into Greg’s hipbones as he picks up the pace. Already he’s desperately staving off his orgasm, toes curling in the shoes he’s still wearing. “You looked incredible,” he groans. “Greg – you are – you are –” Words desert him. “You make me –”

“Oh God,” moans Greg. “Fuck me. Harder. I’m going to – I’m going to –”

Mycroft buries himself inside Greg as hard as possible, the final few thrusts sending him into an orgasm that shuts off all his senses, pleasure bursting over him unstoppably. It’s only as he starts to recover that he realises Greg is still shivering and moaning and clenching around him. Mycroft rides out Greg’s aftershocks, thrusting for a few moments more before everything becomes too sensitive. Once Greg has finished, Mycroft grabs the bottom of the condom and smoothes his hand gently over Greg’s back, before slowly withdrawing.

When he returns from the bathroom, Greg has collapsed onto the duvet on his back, out of the copious patch of evidence of their activities. Mycroft smiles wryly and goes to find a towel.

Once he’s cleaned up a bit, he lies down along Greg’s side and wraps his arm around him, over his stomach. Greg still has his hands over his eyes, breathing more gently now. Mycroft places a soft kiss just in front of his ear. “Was that okay? Are you okay?”

Greg opens his eyes. “Okay.” He grins. “Yeah. You could say that.”

Mycroft smiles at him, sweetly. “Technically, I think I lost,” he murmurs, leaning in for a kiss.

Greg nods. “And with your superior stamina, and everything.”

“Guess you’re not all that old then.”

“Although.”

“Although?”

Greg grins wickedly. “You did make me come untouched for the first time in my entire life.”

“Well…”

“What?”

“Not that untouched. Quite a lot of touching was involved. I saw it. During dinner.”

“Not during sex though.”

“True.”

“So you’re not that much of a loser.”

“Oh, thank you very much, Greg.”

Greg leans in for a long, slow kiss. “Shall we order room service?”

“Yes please.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Oxford](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13541163) by [Lockedinjohnlock](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lockedinjohnlock/pseuds/Lockedinjohnlock)




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